


Sandpiper

by Aariah



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, in which hanzo has god awful handwriting and mccree's is just too damn pretty, that soul mate au you know you love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:29:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aariah/pseuds/Aariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a mark of a very particular weakness. That lazy loose scrawl on the inside of his wrist, right along the vein. It had changed for Hanzo as the years have gone on, started out no more legible than the scribblings of a child, slowly evolving into something elegant for all its laziness.<br/>All those letters spelled out was Hanzo. Somehow it made the curiosity worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I can remember my Gran telling me when I was a kid about the words on my wrist, right along that bit where you can see the vein through thin skin. Gran was one of those ladies with an iron spine, never did put up with jack shit._

_A second generation Irish immigrant my Gran was there when Momma usually wasn’t. We looked alike, Gran and I. Only difference was the skin I can only assume I got from my Pa._

_“You might hate em.” She said, heavy smoke from the cigarillos she smoked regularly escaping from her nostrils. I loved that smell, heady and powerful. Another slow drag. “God does things we don’t understand. You might not even be good for the other,  but you get thrown together all_ _scattered. You’ll have to figure out how everythin’ fits all together on  your own.”_

_I looked down at the writing on my arm. I could barely make out the letters of my name, Jesse. Gran saw me looking and she smiled “Let's just hope they get better at writing eh? Because I’ll be damned if that’s not the worst fucking chicken scratch i’ve ever seen.”_

_Gran was a bounty hunter. Or at least she was, before she got saddled with her young grandson after her daughter went to prison for manufacturing illegal substances, murder and neglecting her son. So no, never did find out who my dad was. Probably some poor hispanic man snared in her traps._

_Anne Collins had only one thing in common with her mother, and that was her handiness with firearms.  The real difference between Anne and his Gram was that Anne didn’t much know the concept of mercy. She also is rather awful at decision making. Thus the prison time, maximum lockup with no possibility of parole due to the body count following her._

_Due to the well, nature of Gran’s former job we skipped around a lot, mainly in the southwest because it still held that potential of wildness that we both came to prefer._

 

Sometimes a child was born with a black scuff on the inner wrist. Most weren’t, which was probably a blessing considering what the mark entailed. They would be linked with that person who had their handwriting on their wrist for the rest of their lives. Often, it led to love, sometimes it didn’t. Occasionally they never meet at all. The shock of one death would often strike down the other as well.

 So really, when Hanzo was born with such a mark his family wasn’t pleased. It turned into more of a curse the more they chewed on it- too identifiable, like a port wine stain. Plus the... Other aspects. In any case, a soulmate for the heir of the Shimada Clan was the last thing they wanted. The child was there to further their goals, he would marry towards them.

  They couldn’t afford the potential of love coming into the picture if they were to meet. It could, no was a huge liability that could topple their empire to the ground.

 So a bandage was carefully wound around the tiny wrist, an understanding between everyone who had seen it came into being. No one was to ever know of this, and the child was to never know what such a thing entailed.

 

 As a toddler, Genji was constantly hanging on Hanzo’s sleeve. Always pestering to play, babbling in one of the languages they were exposed to (English, Spanish and Mandarin along with Japanese. Even with odd phrasing and an accent the ability to speak them without hesitation was an invaluable skill)

 Hanzo had already started the beginnings of his training, or at least what a five year old could actually do without harm. Genji would imitate him, because that’s generally what toddlers and younger siblings did.

 When a wooden practice blade was placed in Hanzo’s hand it was placed in Genji’s too soon after. The boys would go through their routines together, often making a game out of it.

More and more was tacked on as they got older, the goal probably to make the brothers into living weapons. Assassination came with the clan, even their father took jobs.  

 They were close, Genji sneaking out and watching when Hanzo would try to teach himself the bow. He had looked up the basics on the internet, and luckily the equipment in the armory was in good repair, despite never really being used much.

 Hanzo guesses that his father was planning on teaching him, eventually. But his fingers itched and the he knew, he knew he would be better at the bow with enough practice than he ever was at the katana.

 Oh, he was good enough, good enough to make his father proud. But his fingers never itched towards it like Genji’s, nor did the strategy behind wielding ever become as natural as breathing like his teachers always told him it would.  

  So he watched videos, memorizing the look of the archers, he listened to the men saying how the bow ought to fit in the hand. He went about it all methodically, as was his nature. And when he was 11 he chose his mitsugake, the special three fingered glove and a recurve bow.

 

_Gran stuck a gun in my hand within the first year I lived with her. “Better learn it now so you don’t shoot someone.” She had muttered to herself. As much as I loved her Gran was an almost distant figure. Didn’t know much about her, couldn’t ever tell if she was pissed or not._

_Gunslinging was the family business, barring my mother. A tiny revolver, small enough for a child. “Revolvers got a style you won’t see nowhere else boy.” And really, watching her shoot her Peacekeeper I couldn’t help but agree. It looked right. She never told me where she got the gun, I never asked. That was a common theme._

_I took it with me when she was layin there in her grave. Lung cancer at 67, didn’t know till she got too sick to function, then of course it was too late to do anything. 16 didn’t provide many choices. Joined a gang for the thrill of it all, damn stupid decision right there. Honestly, can’t much imagine the impression I made, kid with a revolver and too big cowboy boots smokin’ a cigarillo. Reckon I looked like a lost puppy till I showed them I could shoot._

_Gran, she introduced a way of thinking that gets rid of any feeling of real safety. Knew I’d follow in her footsteps. So really, first instinct when I walk into a room is exits, cover and weapons. Never show your cards, keep the persona neutral and calm. You didn’t think good when angry._

_So when I clunked along into that diner on route 66 they laughed, sure. But they also saw that lil flicker of the eyes that gives that sort of thinking away. The leader, a lady by the name of Eliza took one look and clucked her tongue._

_“Now. We’ll take you if you’re any good with that gun there.” She’d drawled out, sipping on a cup of what I could only assume was coffee. Red lips, black hair. The day I realized I didn’t much like women that way._

_Lord, I aimed at that target set up, some poor bastard’s face printed out on paper. And I hit that target straight in the eye. Three, four, six times. Then I reloaded Peacekeeper with a practiced ease that would only get quicker as I got older._

_Eliza looked me up and down. “You’re in. Don’t go round trying to run. Because we’ll find you.”_

_Really, I didn’t quite know what I got myself mixed up till I was well and tangled. The Deadlocks were damn good at what they did, and I slowly became the best. Could never shake the feeling that Gran was there somewhere glaring at me, and Momma up there in prison laughing at what her son became._

_I puked the first time I killed someone. Stashed the feeling in my mind and swore I’d never forget that bastard’s face. What are you supposed to do when you can’t even identify the self loathing in your chest. My gaze would linger over the other men surrounding me, I could only hope that person with the God awful handwriting printed on my wrist was a man._

_Yeah. That’d make things easier. Sure damn would._

 

Sixteen came and passed, Genji spent less time home by the year. Preferring to spend the hours outside of school (Yes, he actually went to school instead of the viscous tutoring that Hanzo endured and thrived under) in the arcade. As it was, Hanzo was still close to his brother. Perhaps only he could feel the threatening rift between them. His family told the story of two dragon brothers, he couldn’t help but feel this would end in tragedy.

 In any case, it was his father’s job to monitor his younger offspring. There was too much on his plate to add that bit on. The secretive archery sessions had been found out as soon as he started them, but he didn’t know as much until a teacher was brought in nearly a year later.

 Hanzo felt the stirrings of… Something. Underneath the skin, angry and hungry coiling. Honestly, keeping a rein on his temper was hard, it wanted to devour and if it started Hanzo wasn’t sure what would happen. Sleepless nights spent curled in on himself, breathing deeply and trying to calm the ever growing rage.

  One night, pacing the compound grounds his father finally confronted him. “So you feel the stirring?”

  Hanzo nods hesitantly. So it wasn’t a defect of character? A break in the discipline he so prided himself on maintaining?

 His father just sighs, “Then the dragon will need to be bound.”

 

The process of tebori is an old one. Far older than the modern tattoo guns, different in styles as well. Dread was forming at the possibility that the Horishi would decide on the traditional full bodied tattoo, Hanzo wasn’t quite sure whether that was something he’d like or not. As it was he wasn’t much expecting the quiet home in the quiet neighborhood nor the ordinary man who answered the door.

 He can distinctly remember the look of faint disapproval and reluctance on the craftsman’s face as he gestured to Hanzo’s covered wrist. “ _Are you sure you want it obscured?”_ He asked.

 “Yes.” His father replied, stony faced.

Hanzo still wondered why exactly it was such a touchy subject. Having to keep that wrist always covered. All it said was Hanzo, in a lazy beautiful scrawl. So different from the handwriting he could never get to improve. He’d given up, simply typing things out whenever possible. Luckily, after attempting to read his work and him not being able to produce better work his teachers allowed it.

  It was painful. Sitting or laying there for the hours necessary every week as ink was injected into his skin by hand. For nearly 6 months. But throughout the rustling beneath his skin quieted, then became manageable. No one but the artist had any say in the design. He simply inked out what he saw swirling beneath the skin. Luckily it wasn’t the full body tattoo, simply a sleeve and half chest piece. Possibly the most painful part was when he tattooed Hanzo’s armpit. It had him questioning his sanity and strict inner discipline.

 The results were both beautiful and freeing. The scrawl on his inner wrist wasn’t gone, rather incorporated into the design and given a miniscule amount of room to grow. In other words he finally had the okay to wear his clothing as he wished.

  Sleeves were too constricting for archery. Or at least the furious type the newest teacher brought in from across the world was teaching him. The woman spoke English, no Japanese and was someone of the like that Hanzo had never seen. Free movements, nothing contained but she moved in such a way that you knew she was dangerous.

 “Now Hanzo, since you’ve very kindly learned the basics- which I don’t find much fault in- I’m gonna teach you something a little different from what those stuffy old folk keep telling you. What if I told you you could shoot a bow and maintain near perfect accuracy in the middle of battle? Because this is what you’re gonna get taught. Unconventional combat technique.”

 “Is that even practical?” Hanzo asks, he so wants it to be. Then he could be as much use fighting with his prefered weapon as he was with a blade.

 “Oh yes it surely is. You have the discipline for it, that’s plain. Nah, this is leagues ahead of the pretty shooting you do on the regular.”

The training was like nothing Hanzo had ever experienced. Tactics and straight out brawling all in one they trained in a fully set up course that Sophia had ordered constructed. Frankly it was more enlightening than all the years he had spent in the dojo training with his teachers and sparring against Genji and winning. Winning against Genji wasn’t hard. For all the training he had he never really got around to practicing. So the skills were there, just not as firmly embedded as they could be.

 But now, now he was fighting, real fighting. The first time he was cornered by the drones Sophia controlled from the comfort of the sidelines and felt well and truly trapped words leapt to his lips, the force underneath his skin stirring and ready, “Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!” And the arrow flew. Suddenly he understood why such a thing needed to be bound.

  He can’t describe it, the feeling of the spirits flowing through the tattoo, down his arm and away. He actually dropped his bow in shock. His father and Sophia had stood there, both smiling broadly and his father had looked at him with such pride as Hanzo had ever seen.

 “Only one other in the family has ever had two dragons, well over four-hundred years ago. You’ve done well my son.” His father had told him later, after he had collapsed from the sheer energy expended.

Everything got harder from then out, till he left most everyone but Sophia in the dust. His 18th birthday brought his own bow, called Storm. It was fitting, a sleek modern thing. Heavy, but behind the weight there was a vicious power. Recurved, as he prefered and the limbs could be snapped out for storage.

 Sophia grinned at the look on his face. “This one is a mite stronger draw than you’re used to. Go give it a try kid.”

    

_It was one of those days that would stick with you, a month after I turned 18 the job went wrong. Yeah, the objective was mostly completed, bridge blown to bits. Oh but I saw the anxiety on Eliza’s face, the lines worn into her forehead loud and prominent._

_Then they hit. Overwatch. Shot into my armor, how they actually got a hit on me I couldn’t understand. I could usually avoid actually getting shot at by staying out of the way. But then everyone was layin’ down their guns or being shot down dead._

_They were better than me. They were better than us in this surprised state, but by damn I’d go down dead. So my Gran’s gun was lovingly laid down flat on the dusty ground, internally through the haze surrounding everything I can remember wincing. That’d be a bitch to clean out again._

_Everything would have to be taken apart, wiped down. Oh damn. Then bullets actually hit the flesh of my arm. Three times. That's all I could remember before loosing consciousness. The blood loss and laying down on the dirt trying to keep from screaming,_

The pain was sudden, Hanzo dropped to the ground, clutching at his wrist and gritting his teeth as it burned badly enough he could feel tears leaking down his cheek. Then again, and again. The final time he couldn’t really take the pain and passed out, hitting his head on the table on the way down.


	2. Chapter 2

_    Most of what I remember when I came to was pain, a dull stinging that I could feel in my gut wasn’t gonna get any better. Its funny, how you can feel when somethin’ is gonna go real wrong before the real wrong sets in all the way. I wasn’t bleeding out everywhere though, so that was something. I was handcuffed to the bed of what I could only assume was the med bay, if I had been bleedin’ i’d prolly apologize for the mess. Regardless, shit came flooding back then, has the tendency to do so when you’re in that sort of situation.  _

_   I knew i’d been shot, that’s where the pain was coming from. I knew Eliza, John, Keats n the rest were either dead or on their way to prison. As were the rest of the members of the Deadlocks that had been at that particular gig. Overwatch sure knows how to plan shit, a good few people were assigned to that job. Couldn’t much see anyone actually getting away from them either. Reyes was sitting there on a chair, arms folded up and legs spread out.  _

_  “Look. You’re what, 18? Still young kid. Damn impressive for what you’ve got.”  _

_ “What’d ya want from me.” It came out as more of a statement than a question. Didn’t have too much energy for the questionin’ bit.  _

_ “Join Overwatch. Don’t rot in prison for the rest of your life like your little friends or your mother.” _

_ The words ‘your mother’ sure bring a grin to my lips, but damned if i’d let that show. As it was my lips twitch slightly.  _

_  “What the fuck do you know about my mother?” The words come out bitter, hateful. You can’t blame me. I ain’t acceptin’ blame when it comes to her, its all on her. What kind of person abandons her kid for days at a time, God forbid you make her angry or cry.  _

_  “I know Anne Collins is locked up in maximum security prison for the rest of her miserable life. Ain’t that enough kid? So what’ll it be, Overwatch or joining your friends?”  _

_  I laid there and tried to stare at him all sullen. Doesn’t work well when you’ve had a couple chunks of lead to the arm. “They weren’t my fuckin’ friends.” Reyes laughs at that.  _

_  “So can I take that as an Overwatch?”  _

_ Shrugging is hard, somehow I managed it. If it was anything better than the Deadlocks Overwatch would be fine by me. I guessed most things were better than the Deadlocks truth be told. “Sure. Only if I get my gun back. And a new pair of boots.”  _

 

_  I don’t know how they didn’t catch the sepsis sooner. It might have reared its ugly head because I’d been sick beforehand, a dry hacking sort of thing that left you with a sore throat and a fuzzy head- the gunshot wounds just makin’ me more vulnerable. Really though, can’t remember much but pain. Sepsis makes you delirious generally, and I had it bad. I was damn lucky it didn’t mess with my memory after the fact. Something about the infection spreading to the bone? I don’t know.  _

_ I was really fucking sick. Like, the sort of sick they aren’t real sure you’re actually gonna make it out of, the sort of sick where you’re halfway through death’s door and a minor slip will have you tumbling the rest of the way through. Most of the tissue in my arm died due to the lack of circulation. That’s why they had to amputate, plus it was apparently the source of the infection, or something along that line. _

_  But they amputated. All the way up to the shoulder, because that’s all they were able to save. One of the doctors was kind enough to take a picture of that name on my wrist, she gave it to me later on when I was thinkin’ in full sentences again. “I’m sorry.” A single tear running down her cheek. Later I learned her name. Angela.  _

_  It was only when I started gettin better that I remembered one of the aspects of the soulmate mark I’d always ignored. The pain transfers down the line. Don’t matter if you’re drugged up and not feeling it, the poor bastard is feelin’ everything. It just made me more bitter honestly. I didn’t quite know if anything much mattered anymore, amputation can do that to a man. It’s terrifying thinking about the future, trying to figure out how you’re gonna adapt.  _

_ It felt. It felt awful, and wrong and all sorts of variations of shit. Worse than Gran dyin’ worse than Momma’s beatings. I didn’t look at the stump that used to be my arm for years. Sure that metal arm that got stuck on when I was healed up worked just as well, better in fact. Its just, metal arms take gettin used to. You’re still struggling and grieving over the loss of an entire limb, then you get this huge heavy thing stuck on and connected to your nerves which in itself hurts like shit. Your body then has to adjust to the comparatively massive weight.  _

_  And even connected to the nerves it ain’t nearly the same. You barely have the sensation of touch. See, they can’t really replicate that. Even on the ultra fancy expensive prosthetics you had about eh. Half as much feeling in your metal fingertips at maximum. And even having having that ultra fancy expensive tech attached to my torso I still had to memorize the space that arm took up.  _

_ You can’t quite feel where you’re putting it. It takes a lot of guessing. And you have to adjust for the increased speed and strength. Frankly put, you’re strugglin’ no matter what.  _

 

My older brother is an odd person. An awful sense of humor that always made me cringe while I laughed, a solitary way of doing everything. All he had needed to do was ask to learn archery, our father would have been ecstatic at the interest. But no, he’d felt the need to comb through the internet for videos and such to show him what he wanted to know and tried to teach himself with that information. 

  I’d snuck out that night, a thing at the arcade that all my friends were going to. One reason to keep up on ‘ninja’ training- you were able to sneak past guards fairly easily. 

It was on his way back, around three in the morning that he heard the clatter from Hanzo’s room, then the unmistakable thump of his brother’s body falling to the floor. I felt that was reason enough to enter the previously forbidden room (Hanzo is super particular about his privacy, even for my family’s standards.)

 He was in fact slumped on the floor, a gash on his forehead where it had hit the table on the way down. A hand to his cheek had me running to find someone. He was burning.

 

 The family physician seemed to know what was causing the state Hanzo was currently in, thrashing around even while unconscious. Our parents grew pale at the words he whispered to them. I couldn’t hear what they said, and reading lips is well. Hard. And requires a lot of context and body language and yada yada. 

  Anyway. They kept Hanzo heavily drugged. At one point, in a lull between medicine wearing off and being able to give him another dose his screams were so blood curdling they had most everyone in the area covering their ears. Fun stuff. I decided I never wanted to be in a position to hear that sound again. 

 Hanzo was the responsible one. He was the one my parents measured me to, a standard I chafed at. Frankly, I just wanted to live. Somewhat free, away from the constraints of being the kid of a clan infamous for its weapons trafficking and well. Assassination. See, I figured out that that’s generally what we kids were good for. Killing people. Not now of course, later on. And in theory we’d be damn good at it. 

Eventually they had to stop giving him drugs. Because drugs have a tendency to be addictive, duh. 

 In the months afterwards Hanzo isolated himself even more than what he was notorious for. Seriously, you think discipline you think my brother. Its kind of insane.There were days where he’d turn to medication, then sake when the medication obviously didn’t do anything. Because apparently pain when you’re drunk is easier to handle. 

  He never again showed outward signs of his inward struggle though. Even if his teeth were obviously gritted, and you sort of have to admire him for it. Obviously none of this actually worked. So Hanzo just did what Hanzo did best, and threw himself into his training with such a vigor that it was nearly frightening. 

 Honestly, I saw it as a challenge. Try to outdo your socially inept idiot of a brother- it's a sibling thing. Due to the sort of training my father saw fit to give us we generally gained some sort of mastery in anything that seemed useful. Typically guns were practiced with and then avoided. Loud, noisy and messy when a blade or arrow could have the same outcome only silently. I learned to control my dragon as well, apparently you can't really learn to control it unless you unleash it on your own beforehand. Not everyone could do it, a lot of pure frustration and fear was needed to actually summon the spirits for the first time. 

 Mom looked at him with furrowed brows and worried eyes. After finally getting sick of the silence I confront her. Because obviously she knew something I didn’t. And I was worried about him. 

“Genji. Remember how before your brother got his tattoo he always had to cover his wrists?” She asked quietly, looking around to make sure that we were indeed alone. 

“Yeah. I remember.”    
“Do you know what the mark of a soulmate is?” She whispers.

I paled. I’d heard about it in passing, in school, among my friends. It would be bad for the sort of family we had though, very bad. “What does that mean?” 

 I knew though. In my gut. “His mate is in pain. It transfers through the markings on his wrist.” 

And that’s why soulmate markings were so rare and just as often considered a curse as a blessing. If one half died the other often didn’t survive the pain and shock that transferred over to them. 

 They would be connected for their entire lives, like a magnet with a pull they couldn’t have any chance in resisting. It was painful, lonely and ended in tragedy as much as it did joy. “Damn.” 

“Genji! Language!” Mom snapped, “Don’t tell your brother what I've told you. He doesn’t know anything about it. Your father and the clan would prefer to keep it that way.” 

 It seemed cruel. All I could do was nod. She was my mother after all. 

I think that was the real reason Father sent him to the US and Europe for a season. He said it was to ‘give him experience’- you can only be the prodigy in so many areas. Plus, Western countries are so different culturally than Japan- it was necessary.

 Plus, he was asking too many questions. They couldn’t have that. 

 

_ I got better. I don’t know how but I did. Never could run as fast as I could before though, the lingering aftershocks of the infection. Damn lucky it was my left arm, dunno how relearnin’ how to write would have gone.  _

_  I’m still not quite sure why Overwatch kept me on and paid for the treatment and the new arm without me even doing anything at that point. Generally, if you get something you gotta do something to earn it first. This applies to pretty much everything.  _

_ As soon as the doctors gave the okay Reyes started me on my training. It was really… Weird. No one gave a shit about what I wore as long as it was generally practical and you could move in it. The one thing I wasn’t much expecting was the echoing pain that came from where my arm used to be. It was Ana who came up one day with this knowin’ look on her face.  _

_ “Its still there habibi, it won’t ever go away.” She told me, a small smile on her face. Her daughter was visiting, that generally put the woman in a good mood.  _

_  I didn’t much believe her, oh God I wanted to though. Didn’t much believe in anything at that point. Did my training, did way Reyes told me. Got to keep my gun. That’s generally what mattered.  _

_ The thing about Reyes having taken me under his wing directly was that it gave me a different status. I wasn’t some normal recruit, and the others damn well knew it. I knew the significance of Reyes training me himself.  _

_  Ana, Reinhardt, Morrison. They folded me into their makeshift fucked up sort of family where you’re bein’ sent out to maybe die a lot. Mercy got wrapped up too- we were both babies compared to the rest. She stressed too much, trying to weigh the moral code that came with working for an organization that killed a lot. Ana was like a mom, well she was a mom. Even if Fareeha was hundreds of miles away with Ana’s parents in Cairo. _

_ Reinhardt was Reinhardt, can’t really describe the man any other way. Tried to stay clear of him though, because he didn’t much approve of the way I operated most. Not that he really knew what Blackwatch did. Only Reyes really knew the full extent of it, and he wasn't sayin' unless he had to. Morrison was an ass, the sort you generally start out thinking is a good guy but somehow leaves a sour feeling in your mouth if you stay in the same room too long.  _

_ “Yo, kid. Whatever happened to that Gran of yours. Damn good shot. Last I saw they were askin’ her to join Overwatch. Said no, disappeared after that.” Reyes asked me one day, I remember it because everything hurt, rehabilitation generally worked like that. And I was damn determined to get back up to full strength as soon as possible.  _

_ “Cancer.”  _

_ “Damn.”  _

 

_ They figured out eventually I did my best work alone. Alone. With a general time limit, an objective and near free reign on getting it done. As long as I didn’t get caught or cause general uproar most anything was game. Took em long enough, could’ve told them but frankly I wanted to see how much they were paying attention. If they could figure this shit out on their own I’d give them my all.  _

_ Damn awful reasonin’ from the former notorious gang member.  _

_ People are difficult, you can’t trust them for shit. Sure ya can put on a damn good mask and sweet talk most anyone into giving you what you want. But people are difficult, and damn exhausting to be around. They expect shit you can’t give, an open portal to emotions and how you learned Spanish and spoke it like a native when your Gran was Irish. Where the brown of your skin came from when all you really have is a general idea and a curse on the tongue.  _

_  When I was a kid when that gun was first put in my hand there was a sense of intoxicating power that came bubblin’ up. No one would ever touch me again. I was a fucking fool. Figured out it was mainly how you put that power to use that mattered. Blackwatch definitely had an agenda. But it wasn’t one I was particularly interested in arguing against. _

_  Just wanted a target to aim at. Somethin’ to put that rage roarin’ in my ears and that power- heady like cigarello smoke- towards. Damn. I just wanted to shoot my gun, need to stop with the poetics. Makes me sound like an idiot.  _

 

_ Have you ever come across a person who was absolutely gorgeous and made your poor gay heart sing for joy but you also know you most definitely want to have an angry stare off with him because the look on his face is pissing you off royally for zero reason? Because that’s generally what happened when I ran into him first in the middle of the street. He was standing there like a fool- arms crossed and generally looking irritated without actually showin’ it.  _

_  It was somewhere in the deep south, some small city that was far enough from my former turf that Reyes saw it a fine enough local to ship me off to for a week because apparently I was due for a week of leave and he knew if I stayed at HQ i’d rope myself in for more work. Reyes was decent like that, didn’t let any of his agents burn themselves out.  _

_  But can’t quite shake the feelin’ of guilt for getting things that I feel aren’t earned. So that generally includes constantly keepin’ busy. It extends even now.  _

 

This place was irritating. How everyone seemed to be incapable of actually letting people be, the heat that was sticky on his skin and the humidity was awful but he dared not wear something cooler due to his tattoo. He might be fine, considering the amount of youths sporting tattoos just as numerous- his pride wouldn’t allow it.

 Everyone was too open with well, everything. He didn’t know why the public affection bothered him so deeply, it just did. The constant touching, touching- casually touching your arm when they didn’t know you, can’t people just keep their hands to themselves? Oh, and the old women, taking both your hands when talking to you- the thought made Hanzo shudder. Some even insisted on hugs. Hugs! And it was apparently commonplace. 

 He could navigate Hanamura just fine, it was something about these particular streets that had him hopelessly confused. And that’s how he ran into the man dressed like a cowboy again. (He didn’t even mind the getup, it was endearing- he’d never ever say as much.) He’d watched too many of those oddly colored westerns from the last century, even as horribly racist as they were the whole idea of them was one of those things he secretly treasured- so really seeing someone who was actually dressed in the whole getup had his heart soaring just a little. 

 “Where’re ya headed.” The man just stated flatly, amusement glittering in his eyes.

 Hanzo circled around two more times before he accepted the man’s help. And only then because he could feel the stares on the back of his neck. By then the inward fuming had billowed out into a downright boil. He knew it was his fault he was lost in the first place, phone was dead and so he couldn’t exactly check the map that way.

The man takes it all without a word, only quirked lips telling of his state of mind. 

 Long strides take him down a street and to the hotel he’d tried to find for an hour now. To Hanzo’s surprise the man goes right in. “You really think this place has more than one decent hotel? Well it doesn’t. The other’s next door to three different strip clubs and that ain’t company i’m interested in keepin’.”

  That was the beginning of a very, very long week. 

He saw the man 14 times over the next two days, each time he could feel his eyes lingering longer than he wanted, slowly the gaze turned into a slight glare. He finally relented on rolling up his sleeves on day 4, which led that man into showing Hanzo the shoddy work on his hand and arm (only one, the other was a well made prosthetic). 

‘Stick n’ poke and badly done tatts.’ he’d called them in that drawl of his. Hanzo was familiar enough with tattoos to know some of those awfully done tattoos were from a notorious gang that got raided by Overwatch a few years back. His Father had mentioned them in passing, they even did business with what was left on occasion. 

 The day he left it dissolved into an outright yelling match. He doesn’t want to remember over what it was over. So he doesn’t. He feels a bile rise in his throat every time he remembers that man’s face. He lets himself remember that they both left before the police could be called. 

  
  


_ I thought saw for a split second a scrawl on his wrist blended in with the dragon. He was pretty damn good at keeping the inner wrist angled away from people. Then I did something really fucking stupid, considering how I react to that sort of contact i’m not really sure why I took his wrist and angled it upwards just to try to confirm.  _

_  Try being the key word. There was yelling, a particular vulnerable look beneath the rage that had me knowing he didn’t know what the hell the thing on his wrist meant. I walked away knowing I’d never see him again. Also feeling the part of a royal ass, self loathing pooling in my gut. The ache in my chest never much left when I thought of him. Didn’t even know his fuckin’ name. Because generally that’s how I rolled, don’t give a name don’t leave much a trace.  _

_ Generally I only manage to mess shit up personally. Professionally I knew I was damn good at what I did, but well. You can be real good at what you do and still feel the part of the awful human being. Mom always used to scream in her drunken rages on how shit would have been better if I’d never been born. That sort of thing when you’re seven messes you up for a long time.  _

_   I think Reyes saw it on my face when I got back. Didn’t try to pry the answers from me. A small plate of baklava cigars was left in my room courtesy Ana’s long reaching arms. Which was downright strange considering I knew for a fact she had been halfway around the world at the time on a mission.  _

_  Time passes fast when you have shit to do. Think its a part of gettin’ older too. Years pass in the blink of an eye. Eventually I came to believe in what we did, the shadow of my damn mother finally waning. Thought maybe, maybe this was the way out- to make up for all the shit I did when I was in the Deadlocks. Later on, Reyes asked me what had me up in arms so much that one time. “A man. That’s all.” Only time the topic of my sexuality ever came up. Not that it was much a secret, it was one of those things that was generally normal and well over half of Overwatch wasn’t straight.  _

_  The entire organization was buzzing when Mercy brought Genji in. It was awful to watch, man was barely alive and hanging on by the thread Mercy extended. They made him a body, kinda like a real life Darth Vader, weird mask and everything. _

_  Reminded me of me of myself when I first joined up. Full of anger. He lost more than I did though, so it's not really comparable. We got along pretty well actually, actually got to the point where I could call the man a friend.  _

_ “Heard you had one of those soul mate mark things before you lost your arm.” Genji said. He’d calmed down a bit, the rage less strong but still very there. I’d pieced together his story slowly. His brother got roped into murderin’ him when Genji didn’t do what the clan wanted him to do. Even in the rage he was more angry with the clan itself than his brother- which I found damn strange. Not that he wasn’t mad with the man, he wouldn’t talk about him at all.   _

_  “Yup.”  _

_ “Hanzo has one. Doesn’t know what it is. I think. Good of the clan all that.” That was really the first time Genji mentioned his brother by name.  _

__

_  I left a year later. Got damn tired of all the shit everyone was pullin’- felt the part of a puppet and didn’t much appreciate that role. Laid low in Mexico for a while, easy to do considering the infrastructure was torn down durin’ the Crisis and never really got put back up.  _

_  Damn good timing. Everything went to shit soon after. Can’t say I shed a tear for Morrison. Did for Reyes. Damn bastard had to let himself get killed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly McCree's POV bc I really don't want to accidentally be awful.   
> thank you guys for the feedback I've gotten!!!! I really do appreciate and read it all. 
> 
> Also the fic title I got from the song Sandpiper by Kalafina. Seemed fitting somehow you know? 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

_ I wandered after I left. A sizable fortune stashed away in some untraceable account, the Shimada clan weakened. I’m not going ask anyone to understand why I did what I did. You either do, or you don’t. Either way the shame of my actions runs deep through my veins.  _

_  I was a fool. I wandered without thought nor caution, till I woke to the stench of smoke- I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move either, something pinning down my feet. A woman stood in the doorway, face covered. She told me to rise, I couldn’t.  _

_  I made it out, thrown over the shoulder of the stranger who carried the bag with my bow inside. Somehow she knew I needed it, though I’m pretty sure it would have been almost fine considering it was made mostly of metal. The would be assassin on the ground outside, a gunshot through the eye.  _

_ “I will not ask why they wanted you dead. You will not tell me.” She orders firmly as she carries me outside and through a different door. “Don’t look at your legs. Please, just don’t look.”  _

_  I understand later, the understanding coming from the lack of feeling and sensation. I’m not sure how she managed to get me to heal enough where she didn’t need to amputate. I know it would have required skin grafts in the very least. She just shrugged, evading like the best of them. It was bad, even with an iron will I emptied my stomach in the toilet multiple times.  _

_  “It will never be the same.” She told me, “I suggest you go for specialized braces. They function like high end prosthetics and connect to the undamaged nerves. Or I suppose you can learn to live with the difference in registered feeling.” White hair, a patch on one eye and a tattoo under the other. She was the age my mother should have been, with the lines of hardship my mother had never had to endure.  _

_  And really, I could feel. A little- not enough to replicate what I could do before but enough to get around on my own. “Understood.” I would go the route of the braces. For my own sake, I had the sinking feeling i’d break a bone if I tried to run in this state.  _

_ “You have the mark of a soulmate on your arm. Inside your tattoo. Have you found them?” She asked.  _

_ “What.” I paused, that sudden click so loudly audible inside.  _

_ “So no one ever told you.” Her voice was laced thickly with disbelief, and underneath that pity.  _

_  No. No one ever told me. Everything was orchestrated, controlled so I wouldn’t know. “No.” Somehow, even through the curiosity I never really tried to figure it out myself. It was some Forbidden thing that I could never shake the feeling of dread from. So you burn with the want of knowing but die because the cure involves wading through that very same river of dread. _

_  “You’re linked forever with another person. That is their handwriting on your wrist. You feel pain as they do, I’m told though it is controllable if the two are close. You can block it out, on either end. They were idiots not to tell you.”  _

_  Everything made sense. I understood why I was never told, what it meant. The months of pain I had to simply endure with no real cause. The good of the whole before the individual. And the rage, the rage came bubbling up and it was blinding.  _

_  “If one dies, the other usually does as well. Don’t they.” Words come unbidden, solidifying all those reasons why. The woman nods slowly, features sagging and eye glimmering.  _

 

_ I got a tattoo, on my thigh. Above the ruined flesh of my calves, ankles and feet. Not in the way I got the dragon so many years ago. But by the way of a tattoo gun and the span of a few hours. A sparrow.  _

_   Even if I murdered him, I’d honor him. My younger brother.  _

  
  


The recall was a blessing really, every day I grew more and more discontent and restless. There was only so much stoppin’ bad guys on your own that a body could handle. Something was stirring beneath. The leviathan and behemoth breaking their bonds and everything tensing up because of the destruction threatening to break through to the surface. 

 I dunno how they managed to actually track me down. Like damn, when you’re hiding from a bounty of such ridiculous size it made your chest puff up in pride whenever you really sat down and pondered it. 60 million is an awfully impressive bit of number if I do say so myself. Anyway, with that sort of dough sittin’ on your head you got Damn Fuckin’ Good At Hidin’ From Shit.

 Winston I think could pull it off though, he’s got the know how. So really I shouldn’t be too surprised. 

 Time found me on a plane (In the cargo hold, don’t ask how I got there.) on my way to Gibraltar. A stop to pick up a couple of those huge ass things of peanut butter as a gift (really it was an apology of sorts for disappearing’ on everyone. I like to think I’m sorta decent sometimes.) Set and ready I made my way the rest of the way to the Watchpoint. Now, I’d only been there for a couple hours about a decade ago, so the world’s gonna have to forgive the fuzzy memory. 

Luckily Lena found me before i’d made a damn fool of myself and gotten lost. Never knew her too well, talked on a few occasions and even then it wasn’t ever more than a few shared words. 

 “Heya McCree. God how do you look the same but hairier than the last time I saw ya. I mean its been forever. Oh, nice tat- when did ya get it?” At her words I follow her gaze down, and damn near had a heart attack right then and there.    
That pitch black writing that had been on my wrist before I lost it was back, on the opposite arm. And yes, the handwriting was just as shitty, if not worse- as I remembered it to be. Eh, maybe not worse, but pretty damn unreadable unless you squint hard and cross your eyes a lil. 

  “Well fuck.” I mutter, rubbing my wrist against the flannel of my shirt just to check. Nope, it was definitely real. 

 “Dude, you okay? You look like you’re looking at a ghost.” Lena actually stops, her attention torn from something that a mere mortal could only guess at. 

“Well damn if i’m not lookin’ at a ghost.”

“Oh my god. Its the thing! Its the thing isn’t it! I heard from Mercy you used to have one on your arm before you lost it.” Lena is practically jumping, though she’s pretty good at the actual not touching people bit. Which relieves me greatly, because there’s nothin’ that bothers me more than that. 

 “Well darlin’ it would appear so. Now if we could get out of this sun things will be fine and dandy.” The glare along with the general shock was giving me a headache, never did respond well to sunlight. Another reason for the hat. 

 Winston looks at it and sorta shrugs- obviously preoccupied with the huge things of peanut butter, sends me to Angela who also shrugs and shoves a couple of aspirin in my hand before threatening to send me off to bed.    
“Have you been wearing your hat?” She asks, knowing the general reason for my wearing it near constantly beyond the aesthetic. 

 “Yes Ma’am. When do I not wear it?” 

“How has your arm been holding up? Wait, here- let's get this thing off you so it can be tuned up. God knows the last time you’ve had it looked at.” She gestures for me to remove my shirt so she can actually take the damn thing off. It wasn’t situated in a good spot for the wearer to be able to take it off very easily, so really unfortunately you couldn’t really maintain the areas you couldn’t reach yourself well.

“Wait- do you even know how to fix it? The fingers twitch at the worst times I swear. Also the pinky is downright refusin’ to work at this point.” Didn’t really dare go to a reputable fixer of expensive prosthetics, so you generally learn to deal. 

“Torbjorn is here. I’ll take your concerns to him. Now in the meanwhile you will go rest, and perhaps we’ll figure out eventually why the soulmate mark resurfaced. Now, bed.” Angela really was a force of nature when it came down to it. 

“Yes Ma’am. Wait, who all else is here?” I ask

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Winston. In the morning. “ And with that I’m forced out of the infirmary, down an arm and with more questions than answers. 

 

 I didn’t much like the current state of affairs. Still didn’t like looking at my stump much unless I had to, and really I couldn’t go to Winston and ask questions without Mercy finding out and giving me an earful. 

So really, that basically left me with the options of actually going to bed (not an appealing option with the current situation) or wandering around and hoping I didn’t get caught. Because again, you don’t want to go against the doctor’s orders generally. 

 I opted for the latter, because well. One, I didn’t really know the layout of Watchpoint well, two, not knowing the layout and exits in general made me anxious as all shit. And well, three? I was bored. 

 Bored meant poking into rooms, narrowly escaping running directly into Reinhardt, who looks nearly the same except for a few more lines worn into his face. Damn man is still buff as all shit though, don’t know how he manages it. 

Next morning got my arm back, and to my delight the fingers no longer twitched and the pinky was movable again.  Also found out that Genji was on route, and that Ana’s girl was thinkin’ about joining up. Winston had a few other recruits in mind, but he kept muttering to himself that he was really hoping at least someone would take him up on his offer. 

 “I think Genji has either one or two people coming after him. Or at least that’s what I’m assuming he said. I’m pretty sure he was trying to be confusing on purpose.” Winston says finally, pushing his glasses back on all proper. 

“Damn. That makes what, 7 of us?” I mutter, taking a long hard drag on the cigarello between my lips. 

 “Yes. Unfortunately.” 

 

Fareeha did join, the next day actually she came racing down the road on a motorcycle. Honestly having known her mother so well I can’t even say I’m surprised. No wonder Ana kept her daughter away from all this- the girl was just the sort to join and be really, really good at what she did. Ana never wanted it for her, she always said she just wanted peace for us all. I think it hurt her, seein’ Mercy and me fighting when we were just 5 years older than her own kid. 

 The tech on the suit she brought along sent Winston and Torbjorn into a flurry. Because motherfucking rockets. Its always the rockets. 

 “McCree I think? Sorry, I’m not very good with names.” Fareeha Amari looked a whole lot like her mother, and it sent an unexpected wave of grief through me. Ana was dead, but here was that kid she spent so much time tryin’ to protect. 

 “Yes Ma’am. Fareeha? Am I sayin’ that right?” 

“Close enough, the first a is a little softer. Fareeha. Like that.” She smiles slightly.    
“Fareeha. There, did I get it?”    
“Yes. Thank you.” 

 I’d only met Fareeha twice before this, Ana really did hold great importance on keeping her personal and professional lives apart like that. I knew her not knowing my name was bullshit though. That child had idolized all that Overwatch was, having witnessed her meeting Reinhardt was pretty damn amazing. It was just after I joined up, when I was still healin’ and miserable and really it served as a defining moment. 

 And she’d been gone within the week, Reinhardt had that stupid grin stuck on his face for a month after the fact. 

Genji, he never just arrives. No, he pops up and scares the shit out of you when you really ain’t ready or expecting it. Then he laughs because he actually managed to get a reaction out of you, and that’s apparently amusing as all fuck when you’re him. 

 Really, its just an asshole move. Four bullets gone and that man had not a single bullet hole in him. You could tell he was smirking beneath his mask. “Hello McCree. Sharp as ever I see.” 

 “You never do change do you.” I mutter underneath my breath while reloading Peacekeeper. 

“I’ve changed plenty I assure you.” Dunno why he always insists on the accent when the man is perfectly capable of speaking American English like the best of them. Probably goes along with the ninja persona he had goin’ on.

“Winston said you’re bringin’ some folks along?” I ask. 

“Yes.” 

 I wait a few moments, mainly to see if I wouldn’t have to play the whole word game. That’s how Genji fuckin’ Shimada was. He played. He remained literal just for his own amusement unless well, it was a bad time to remain literal or if he was pissed beyond all belief. That’s why I generally liked the guy, humor was generally a good thing. 

“Mind elaborating there.” I say finally. 

“My mentor, and I’m about 95% sure my brother is going to be showing his face within the next day. He’s not exactly happy with me right now, but is being stubborn about it.” I can feel the eye’s beneath Genji’s mask hone in on my wrist. Never bothered hiding the thing before I lost my arm, ain’t gonna start now. 

“What’s that?” He asks, his hollow voice hitting a particularly sharp note. 

 “First you’re gonna tell me why the fuck the brother that you know, tried to murder you is showin’ up here.” Rage is a funny thing for me. It pops up at odd times and ebbs away at even odder.    
“I don’t think he’s a bad person Jesse. I think he can get better. And he’s good, really good. We need the help right now and you know it.” 

 Most of the rage fizzles out right there, though I have the feeling that it’ll rear its ugly head when I actually see the man. “Damn.” 

 “Consider it an achievement that there’s even a chance he’s coming. I’ve been working on this for quite a while. Now, your wrist.” 

“Soulmate mark. Used to be on my arm before I lost it, decided to show up again. Dunno why.” 

“May I see it for a moment?” Genji asks quietly.

In response I turn my wrist over, angling it towards him. Really, I wasn’t expecting the laughter that Genji collapsed into. The handwriting was comically shitty but not the equivalent of cyborg dying of laughter comically shitty. 

 “Oh wow. Wasn’t expecting that. Holy shit man. McCree? You got your work cut out for you.” Genji wheezing was weird. Everything that comes out is robotic sounding right? Have you ever heard a robot wheeze? Thought not. It's really an uncomfortable thing for a soul to listen to. 

“Why? You recognize the chicken scratch?” 

“Is that what you call it? Without a doubt.” Mirth colored each exaggerated syllable. 

“You gonna tell me?”   
“Nope. Definitely not.” Dunno why I was expecting Genji to throw me a bone here, that’s completely against everything he stands for. 

“Asshole.”

“So is he. Good luck there.” And with that Genji did that thing he got real good at, disappearing with a poof. I think he just really fuckin’ fast to give the impression of the whole there one moment gone the next deal. He’s got it down to pat though, and really it was pretty darn impressive. 

“You fucker.” 

 

 Good Lord help me. I knew that face when that man walked in. I’d seen the younger version in my dreams many a time since I first saw him, plus the tattoo was a dead giveaway. It isn’t very characteristic for me to get caught up on anyone, much less a man I never even slept with. So yeah, guess you could say that chance meeting back then had me smitten. Ain’t too ashamed to say it, shit happens. 

 And I could tell. Really fuckin’ tell that Hanzo Fucking Shimada recognized me too and there was that deep rage rearin’ its ugly head again. As predicted. 

 With Genji, Winston and Mercy supervising I could only see the faintest glimmer of anger in that man’s eyes. Hanzo kept a good distance from Genji, but you couldn’t tell too much of what he was thinkin’ because he had a damn good mask goin’.  

 “Winston, this is my brother Hanzo. I think he would be a good addition to Overwatch. “ Genji was saying, I only heard him faintly because Hanzo and I were in the midst of a stare off and really. I wasn’t gonna back down anytime soon. If anyone else felt something off no one brought attention to it. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea Genji? Considering your… Past.” Mercy cuts in, almost sharply. 

  
“I won’t try and kill him again if that’s what you’re asking.” Hanzo cuts back. Oh sweet lord almighty that voice. Good Lord what what sort of mess did I get myself into?

 “I can vouch for his skill.” Genji says, almost apologetic. 

You can tell Hanzo doesn’t really much want to be here. Standin’ in the middle of a brother he obviously didn’t know how to feel about, two strangers and a not quite stranger you fought with the only other time you met, all on a particularly pretty bit of rock. 

“Well… If wants to stay I’m not going to object. We need people right now, and I’m assuming you aren’t affiliated with Talon?” Winston, ever the voice of reason when you need it. Hanzo shakes his head no, disgust very thinly veiled.

How could you ever think this man was stoic. Like truly never showing much to him emotion wise. He burned like a carefully controlled fire, one wrong move and the whole place could go up in flames. 

 And when he turned his full body towards me, not just his gaze I felt the full force of that explosion directed straight at my face.    
“See you never bothered to remove the gang tattoos.” He says. With a smirk. A tiny, tiny smirk. 

A smirk that sent the rage in me to the boiling point. “Very funny.” I didn’t much like gettin’ angry. Lost most of my vocabulary and couldn’t shoot straight. I could feel the eyes of everyone there lookin’ at me, back at that Hanzo fella, then back at me. Even if I couldn’t see it, because like Hell I was losing a stare off to a piece of shit.  

 That’s when Genji started laughing, like not really the fall on the floor laughing because well. Cyborg. But damn if it wasn’t the equivalent. 

“I should have known.” He manages to gasp out. Cyborg gasping, also an uncomfortable thing to listen to all said and told. Almost as bad as the wheezing. 

And like that the boiling rage sputtered, and died out. 

“Okay. That’s it, i’m out. Bye y’all.” I say finally , after watching Genji lose his shit for a few moments. Decided it was probably a good idea to make myself scarce for a while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being longer than I expected so boom, not the last chapter lol.   
> Thank you guys so much for the reviews and support, it means a ton to me like you have no clue.   
> Hope you enjoy my shaky take on canon <3

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted something a little different. Feel free to start pestering me if the next update takes longer than two weeks. tumblr is spiraloforigins  
> thanks for reading!!!


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